on many large trees there are
these certain strawthin
spindlethick branches
that grow straight up into the sun's
terrible and brilliant nose.
And yet, I somehow find myself
believing that the forest should be
reaching out to me--
that to grow truant
from the trunk (which i can
touch and tear with both hands)
is obscene and strange.
all of the other limbs feel
that my inner light is enough:
enough to grow a fairy in,
some ladybugs,
and other natural predators.
(I feel it.)
but not these young branches
with such vigor; such hopeless ambition.
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